


All Becoming is Disintegration

by billiethepoet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Bondage, Cheating, Crossdressing, Daddy Kink, Facials, Grief/Mourning, Humiliation, Jealousy, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Manipulation, Mention of sex with an underage character, Reichen!Death, Sex Toys, Sibling Incest, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 01:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billiethepoet/pseuds/billiethepoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Sherlock and John grow together, Sherlock and Mycroft fall apart. Mycroft doesn't know how to save what he has and both he and John are left with nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Becoming is Disintegration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrighteyedJill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/gifts).



> Thanks to my fantastic beta,[ ideal_girl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/trainwreckdress/pseuds/ideal_girl), for seeing me through the smut.

_Smack!_

Mycroft's hand comes down hard across Sherlock's backside, leaving a red and angry hand print. Sherlock keens and pitches forward but is unable to gain any leverage in his precarious position. Sherlock's body is stretched across a wide wingback chair, the tops of his legs are pressed against one arm while his hands brace his upper body against the other. He makes a very enticing sight, completely nude with his feet stretched on tip-toe to push his ass higher in the air while his cock bobs uselessly in the empty space above Mycroft's lap.

_Smack!_

This time Mycroft's hand lands on the sensitive place where buttocks meet thighs and Sherlock bucks forward again, balancing the pain in the stretch of his legs against the relief of any friction he may be able to reach. Mycroft waits until Sherlock is done rocking his hips in vain hope before he brings his hand down across Sherlock's bare arse again.

“Daddy,” Sherlock moans. “Daddy, please. It hurts.”

Mycroft pulls the curls on the crown of Sherlock's head hard enough to arch Sherlock's neck back. “Our father was a fine and upstanding man.” His voice is harsh while he berates Sherlock. “He would never have laid a hand on you.”

“That's not the point, Mycroft,” Sherlock sneers. “You're being deliberately obtuse.”

“Say it again and I'll make you put on your clothes and leave.”

Sherlock pretends to consider the threat before pushing his arse back into Mycroft's hand. Mycroft tenderly rubs his palm over the rising welts but keeps his other hand tight in Sherlock's hair. He stays like that for a few moments, watching his hand prints fade while Sherlock fidgets uncomfortably beneath him.

“Enough,” Mycroft says, softer this time, as he delivers a final sharp slap to Sherlock's cheeks. “Kneel.”

Sherlock rolls off the chair and comes to rest between Mycroft's spread knees. Hands flat against Mycroft's thighs, Sherlock waits for instruction.

“You can be so obedient when you want to be.” Mycroft strokes Sherlock's hair, taking a few moments to enjoy having Sherlock so calm and pliant. Sherlock's eyes sink closed with a quiet sigh and he pushes his head into Mycroft's touch. Mycroft drags his hand down Sherlock's face, catching that plump bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “Hands and mouth. Go slowly.”

Sherlock slides his hands up, working slowly toward Mycroft's flies. Mycroft enjoys this; these quiet moments in the games they play.

But it is a game, and Sherlock needs very specific instructions. “Don't touch yourself. Hands on me only. Is your cock strap still in place?” Sherlock makes a non-committal noise as his fingers pull open Mycroft's trousers.

Mycroft yanks Sherlock's hair again until he relents with a terse, “Yes, sir.” Sherlock's hands go back to work and pull Mycroft's half-hard cock from his pants. He strokes Mycroft's length before dragging his tongue across the head. Mycroft sits back to enjoy the teasing licks Sherlock lays along his shaft and the light mouthing and sucking across the head of his cock.

Sherlock takes Mycroft's cock in his mouth, letting his tongue slide down the shaft as he works the head into the back of his throat. As per instructions, he goes slowly. He glides up and down, slicking his brother's dick with spit until it's fully hard in his mouth. Mycroft pushes him away and stands.

“Hands behind your back, and open your mouth.” Mycroft's voice is ragged now, all semblance of control gone. Sherlock dutiful complies and Mycroft guides his cock back into Sherlock's waiting mouth. Mycroft is still completely clothed, opened flies rubbing against Sherlock's face when he pushes his cock deep. Mycroft's hand is wrapped around the back of Sherlock's skull while he works his cock in and out of Sherlock's open mouth.

“Close your mouth around me and suck.” Sherlock's breathing heavily through his nose now as Mycroft fucks his face. Mycroft forces the head of his cock into Sherlock's throat and leaves it there just a second too long to be pleasurable before withdrawing it. He fucks Sherlock's mouth until his lips are red and swollen. Sherlock moans each time Mycroft pulls his cock to the edge of Sherlock's lips and then thrusts back in again. Saliva runs down Sherlock's chin.

Mycroft pulls Sherlock's hair, forcing his head and neck back. His cock comes free with a soft pop and he takes himself in hand. Sherlock's fingers grasp Mycroft's trousers and dig into the flesh of his thighs. “Eyes,” Mycroft rasps while his hand strokes his cock hard and fast. Sherlock obediently closes his eyes and keeps his face turned upward.

The first hot stripes of Mycroft's cum land on Sherlock's forehead, covering part of his fringe. The next lands across Sherlock's right eye. Mycroft finishes by pressing the pulsing head of his cock against Sherlock's cheek and dragging it to paint Sherlock's lips with the last drops of his release.

Mycroft breathes heavily for a few moments, keeping the head of his cock pressed against his brother's lips. Sherlock's eyes remain closed and his hands dutifully clasped behind his back. Mycroft takes pity on him and wipes the cum from his eyelid, leaving his lashes clumped and sticky. He slides his cum-covered thumb into Sherlock's mouth to be sucked clean. “Sit on the edge of the desk and face me.”

Sherlock's eyes snap open and he scrambles onto the desk, ready for his reward. Mycroft takes hold of his hips and slides his arse to the very edge. Sherlock plants his heels on the desk and his knees fall apart. Mycroft pulls a tube of lubricant from the desk drawer and coats two fingers. He rubs both fingers across Sherlock's exposed hole.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock is bucking his hips upward and gritting his teeth. “Do it already. Give me both. Stop teasing.”

“As always, your wish, my brother.” Mycroft pushes both fingers in to the second knuckle immediately. Sherlock cries out, voice hoarse and strained, but pushes his arse further into Mycroft's hand. Mycroft picks up a steady rhythm by pulling his fingers out to the very tips before thrusting back in again.

“Please, Mycroft. Please.” Sherlock is bearing down on Mycroft's fingers and writhing, aching for his prostate to be touched. Mycroft unsnaps the leather cock strap from the base of Sherlock's erection and wraps his free hand around the shaft. He pumps Sherlock's cock in counterpoint to his thrusting fingers. He slides his hand all the way up Sherlock's shaft, pulling the foreskin over the head, as the fingers working Sherlock's arse brush against his prostate. He presses his finger tips on either side of the gland and shifts them back and forth. Sherlock is panting out broken moans as he tries to rock himself into both Mycroft's hands simultaneously.

“Come on, Sherlock.” Mycroft works his hands faster. “Show Daddy what a mess you can make of yourself.”

Sherlock comes hard, yelling out Mycroft's name. His cum squirts across his abdomen, into his navel, and onto his chest. Between Mycroft's cum drying in fat globs on his skin and his own spunk, Sherlock is well coated from his fringe to the curls at the base of his cock. Mycroft eases his fingers from Sherlock's arse hole while his brother comes back to Earth.

Wiping his hands on a handkerchief, Mycroft sneers at Sherlock. “Your particular kinks are disgusting, dear brother.”

Sherlock's legs hang from the edge of the desk and he chuckles, “That particular indictment loses some weight coming from a man who's been fucking his _dear brother_ for more than a decade.”

“Get yourself cleaned up and I'll order dinner.” Mycroft tucks himself back into his flies and moves away from the desk.

“Just a quick wash. Can't stay.”

“Sherlock. You need to eat.”

Sherlock rises from the desk and walks toward the ensuite. “I said I can't stay. I'm meeting my new flatmate at seven.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, already thumbing through emails on his Blackberry. “How long do you expect this one will last?”

The shower turns on. Sherlock shouts over the noise. “I have no expectations.”

“Good. Then you won't have to be disappointed.” Mycroft's voice isn't quite loud enough to be heard over the hissing of the shower.

********************

“You could have been killed!” Mycroft is digs his fingernails into Sherlock's hips, further evidence of his displeasure. “Meeting that man alone was one of the stupidest, most foolish things you have ever done.” He punctuates his last word with a strong thrust, forcing his cock balls deep in Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock's hands scramble against the duvet as Mycroft's thrust nearly knocks him off his hands and knees. He stays in position, on the edge of the bed with Mycroft standing behind him, and the sound of flesh smacking together grows louder on every thrust. Sherlock pushes back onto Mycroft's cock with sounds of encouragement. Mycroft's anger has always worked out well for him in the past.

Sherlock twists his neck to watch Mycroft. “You know, this would be much more comfortable if you actually undressed. Or are you embarrassed by your recent trips to the sweet shoppe?”

“Oh, Sherlock, you're lucky I've taken my trousers down at all. It's more than you deserve.” Mycroft pulls out until just the ridge of his cock catches on the edge of Sherlock's slick hole. “And I know what these petty jibes are about. You want me to be lowered to where you are. To be naked, base, and vulnerable.” Mycroft thrusts back in, altering the angle so the head of his cock drags over Sherlock's prostate. “That's you, Sherlock. Not me.”

Sherlock lets his head fall to rest on the bed while Mycroft pumps rhythmically behind him. Each hard stroke pushes the detritus of the day from Sherlock's mind. Mycroft's thrusts are deep and sure, eventually leaving only Sherlock's body in charge. The body that is quickly narrowing down to only one response : _come come come come_. 

Sherlock shifts his shoulders and slides his right hand down to grasp his cock. He focuses on the change in Mycroft's breathing, going from deep pants to staggered stuttering, and how Mycroft's pattern of thrusts is breaking down. They're almost there. A few light strokes with his fingertips over the head of his cock and then a hard squeeze around the shaft and Sherlock's coming. He can feel himself tightening around Mycroft's cock. Mycroft thrusts one more time, leaving his cock buried deep. Sherlock's hips are beginning to bruise.

Mycroft lays his head against Sherlock's sweat-slicked back as the last pulses of his orgasm fade. Their breathing evens out.

“I wouldn't have died. John wouldn't have let me.”

Mycroft straightens abruptly. “You didn't even know he was going to be there. He wouldn't have been there if Moriarty hadn't abducted him.”

“But he was. And because he was, I wouldn't have died. It seems John is incapable of not protecting me.”

Mycroft jerks his softening prick from Sherlock's arse, causing Sherlock to groan in discomfort. “I'm taking a shower and then going to bed. Stay or go. I don't care.”

Sherlock stretches out face down across Mycroft's bed. “I think I'll stay. John's out for the night and Scotland Yard will have no use for us until morning.” 

“So good I can still fit into your plans.” Mycroft's teeth clench.

Sherlock's only response is a gentle humming as he falls asleep.

********************

Mycroft binds Sherlock's hands to the bottom of the headboard and lays him out diagonally across the bed. Sherlock's brain is still too full to process what's going on. He's running through all the possible scenarios, motivations, and outcomes: Why did Irene make such a foolish mistake? Was it just sentiment or was he missing something important? He could spend days lost in his own head if Mycroft doesn't pull him out of it.

Mycroft unbuttons Sherlock's shirt (his jacket having been left in the other room ages ago) and pushes it open to reveal his pale chest. He pulls off Sherlock's socks and shoes. Sherlock's trousers and pants join the pile on the floor. 

“Please, Mycroft.” Sherlock shifts restlessly on the bed, stretching his bonds. His cheeks are tinged pink and his prick is already hard.

Mycroft stands at the foot of the bed. “Please what?”

“I need to be overwhelmed.” Sherlock licks his lips. “Please.”

Mycroft shucks off his suit jacket and moves on to the buttons of his waistcoat. “I'm not angry at you anymore, Sherlock. You fixed your mistake.” His waistcoat and shirt land in a chair and his hands drop to his flies. “Ms. Adler's information is safe now.”

“I don't care about Irene Adler.” Sherlock's voice is petulant and drawn. Mycroft raises an eyebrow. He finishes disrobing, but doesn't respond. Sherlock's eyes are wide and his lips moist as he examines his brother's naked body. It's a rare treat for Mycroft to undress entirely.

Mycroft starts at Sherlock's feet. His hands wrap around Sherlock's ankles with a firm squeeze. They travel up Sherlock's shins, to his thighs, and then to his hips. Mycroft's body follows his hands, taking his time as he covers Sherlock's body with his own. His touch is firm and reassuring, hands skimming across Sherlock's ribs and up his raised arms to where the stretched fabric binds him to the bed. Mycroft's weight is a grounding and solid reassurance.

Mycroft presses soft kisses along Sherlock's neck. Sherlock rolls his head to the side encouraging Mycroft to move to his jaw and ear. Mycroft locks his fingers with Sherlock's and rolls his hips, bringing their cocks together.

Sherlock turns his head and kisses Mycroft. Their tongues tangle lazily and Mycroft lays gentle nips along Sherlock's bottom lip. Mycroft is trying to calm him, bring him fully into the moment with the languid pace of their kissing, but Sherlock's impatience soon takes over. Sherlock rocks his hips up and tries to drag as much of his erection across Mycroft's hardening prick as possible.

“Patience.” Mycroft's words ghost across Sherlock's ear, catching it between his teeth before moving to sucking and nibbling on Sherlock's neck. Sherlock huffs out an exasperated sigh in response and stills his hips. Mycroft continues his downward trend, running his lips and tongue across Sherlock's collarbones. He presses hot, open mouthed kisses down the center of Sherlock's chest and firmly rubs the pad of his thumb across one nipple, causing it to harden and reach upward.

“It'll be worth it.” Mycroft's words are lost in the soft flesh of Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock's pelvis tilts upward again, bumping his cock into Mycroft's chin. Mycroft across Sherlock's abdomen, away from the thrust of his cock. Sherlock rocked higher, this time bumping the head of his cock into Mycroft's cheek. Mycroft moves on to those impatient hips. He runs his tongue in the divot of Sherlock's hip bone all the way to Sherlock's groin, then back up again. Mycroft bites the ridge of Sherlock's hip and worries the skin between his teeth until Sherlock hisses in pain; he lets go and licks across the imprints of his teeth, soothing the rising redness.

Mycroft takes Sherlock's cock in his mouth. He starts gently, swirling his tongue around the head. Sherlock sighs and wriggles his hips. The slower pace finally relaxes Sherlock and starts to clear his head. Mycroft continues to tease him with light licks and gentle kisses along the shaft. Rolling Sherlock's balls in the palm of his hand, Mycroft sucks gently at the head of Sherlock's cock. He rolls his hips upward again, trying to push more of his cock into Mycroft's mouth and down his throat. Mycroft pulls off and forcefully pushes Sherlock's hips to the bed. “You need a distraction.”

Mycroft slides from the bed, leaving Sherlock flushed and scowling. He pulls two objects from a chest at the foot of the bed: a black leather gag and a bottle of lubricant. He moves to Sherlock's head. “Open.” Mycroft's voice is silky and commanding. The inside of the gag is a three-inch long black dildo shaped like the head of a cock. Sherlock takes it in eagerly and turns so Mycroft can fasten the buckle behind his head. Sherlock's cheeks hollow as he sucks and wraps his tongue around the miniature silicone cock in his mouth. Sherlock lets out a contented hum and pulls against the fabric tying his wrists.

Mycroft chuckles and settles his shoulders between Sherlock's legs. “Keep yourself entertained so I can take my time and enjoy.” He rubs his lips and nose against Sherlock's balls. Mycroft drags the tip of his tongue up the seam of Sherlock's sack to lick the base of his cock. Mycroft works his way to the top of Sherlock's erection before taking the length in his mouth. Sherlock moans around the prick-shaped gag in his mouth. This time, when his hips jump from the bed, Mycroft doesn't push him back down.

Mycroft deftly spreads lube on two fingers while still working his mouth up and down Sherlock's shaft. He rubs both fingers across Sherlock's arsehole. He massages there until he feels the muscle loosen. Mycroft sucks at the head of Sherlock's cock and pushes his slick fingers in, both at once. Sherlock's nostrils flare and his breathing is heavy. Mycroft pulls away from Sherlock's cock long enough to reassure him.“Shhh. You can take it, Sherlock. I know you can.” Sherlock gives a sharp nod and Mycroft pulls his fingers to the edge of Sherlock's hole. He slides the first half of Sherlock's erection into his mouth before pushing those fingers back in again.

Sherlock hovers on the edge of bliss. His arms are stretched above his head and his shoulders are beginning to ache. He feels trapped between the heat of Mycroft's mouth and the insistent push of Mycroft's fingers. He thinks he's leaving teeth marks on the dildo in his mouth. Sherlock tries to speak around his gag but his orders of _more_ and _harder_ come out as muffled moans.

But Mycroft gets the message. He rolls his eyes and pulls away to slick a third finger. “You lack an appreciation for the art in this. You just want to push ahead to the endgame. Always.” Mycroft swallows Sherlock's cock to the root and sets a rapid pace with his hand. His fingers work in and out of Sherlock's arsehole while he massages Sherlock's cock with his throat.

High-pitched whines and sobs are sneaking out around Sherlock's gag. He's caught trying to push his cock further into Mycroft's mouth and simultaneously grinding his arse onto Mycroft's fingers. Sherlock wraps his hands around the fabric tying his wrists to the headboard and pulls, trying to ground himself from the assault of sensation hitting him from all angles.

Mycroft can feel Sherlock tightening around his fingers. He drags his mouth up to the head of Sherlock's cock and sucks hard. His fingers are buried deep in Sherlock's arse when Sherlock begins to come. Mycroft keeps sucking, swallowing every drop of Sherlock's spunk.

Mycroft eases his fingers from Sherlock's arse and licks the head of Sherlock's cock clean. “Turn over. Now.” Mycroft pushes at Sherlock's hip, causing the fabric between his wrists and the headboard to twist, until Sherlock rests on his side. He spoons behind Sherlock and quickly releases the buckle holding the gag in place. Sherlock spits the gag aside, leaving his lips red, his jaw sore, and spit smeared on his chin. Mycroft slicks his own cock and presses Sherlock's legs together. He slides his prick between Sherlock's thighs, dragging his length along the underside of Sherlock's balls with each thrust.

Sherlock lets his head fall against the mattress, still hazy from his own orgasm and happy to feel his brother fuck the soft space between his thighs. Mycroft keeps hold of Sherlock's hips and picks up a brisk pace. Within a few minutes, Mycroft is panting Sherlock's name before he pushes in with a final, strong thrust and coats Sherlock's skin with his release.

They lie together, with Mycroft's face pressed to the back of Sherlock's neck and his arms crossed over Sherlock's middle, until Sherlock finally clears his throat. “Untie me. It's uncomfortable now.” Mycroft silently reaches up and unknots the ties from Sherlock's wrist, but Mycroft makes no move to release him. Sherlock rubs his wrists to get the circulation going again. His voice is rough when he speaks again. “I have to wash up and go home. John will wonder where I am.”

Jealousy spikes through Mycroft. “Let him wonder. He's not your keeper.”

Sherlock chuckles and pulls himself from Mycroft's arms. “I thought that's what you wanted him to be.” He rolls from the bed and heads to the loo. Mycroft can hear the water start up but Sherlock shouts over it. “He's been... concerned about Irene Adler. This situation has unsettled him.”

Mycroft lays on his back in the center of the bed in silence until Sherlock reappears from the ensuite. He watches as Sherlock redresses and leaves without a word.

Mycroft gives Sherlock plenty of time to get home before he checks the live-feed from the cameras in Baker Street. Mycroft sees Sherlock, still in his coat and scarf, curled on the sofa with his head in John's lap. John's hand is tangled in Sherlock's hair and they're just looking at each without speaking.

Mycroft turns the monitor off more forcefully than necessary.

********************

The night's gone unseasonably cool but the fire burning in Mycroft's sitting room keeps the air warm. Mycroft is enjoying the peace and quiet until Sherlock enters without knocking. He doesn't look away from the fire. “You know, you can't actually steal my credentials to gain access to high security military bases.”

“I can and I have.” Sherlock stands between Mycroft and the flames, his stance tense. The silence stretches between them.

Finally, Mycroft breaks. “Just say what you've come to say.”

Sherlock breathes heavily and his words come out in a rush. “John and I are together now. I won't be seeing you anymore.”

“You mean you won't be shagging me anymore.” Mycroft's tone is sarcastic and all traces of bitterness are tightly controlled.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“It wasn't a question, Mycroft. Our relationship is going to be more conventional in the future.” Sherlock moves to walk past him, but Mycroft's hand shoots out and catches Sherlock's wrist.

Mycroft squeezes hard enough to leave white and red marks on Sherlock's skin. “You're not leaving. On your knees.” He tugs and Sherlock has to step toward him to keep from being pulled over.

“No. I'm leaving. This isn't happening again.” Sherlock twists his wrist, using his position for leverage, and breaks Mycroft's hold. Without looking back, he starts toward the door.

Dread had been rising up in Mycroft for weeks, maybe months, over this exact scenario. He stays in his chair, refusing to watch Sherlock's retreating back. “Before you go, I bought you a gift.” This is Mycroft's last ditch effort to keep his brother with him. He absolutely cannot sound desperate. “In the bottom righthand desk drawer, there's a white paper sack. It's for you.”

The silence that follows is unbearable. Mycroft keeps his eyes locked on the fireplace. Slowly, he hears Sherlock's footsteps move to the desk. The drawer open, and there's the crinkle of paper. Mycroft hears the bag being pulled open. He waits but there's nothing -- no change in breath, no sounds, nothing to give away Sherlock's reaction to what's in the bag. It takes another few moments, but Sherlock crumples the bag and its contents as small as it can go and stuffs it into his coat pocket.

Mycroft barely stops himself from letting out an audible sigh of relief. “Next time you come to me, be wearing those. And be ready to apologize.”

Sherlock's only response is the soft click of the closing door. Mycroft's disappointment and anger is covered by satisfaction.

********************

It takes nearly three months. Three months of waiting, teeth set on edge every night. Mycroft hasn't been pining all that time. He's been busy trying to crack a criminal mastermind. The even-later-than-normal nights in his office are in no way to avoid going home alone. Absolutely not.

It's only mildly surprising that Sherlock comes directly to his office rather than to his home. At first, Mycroft's not sure Sherlock's come for this, but a second look reveals the slight flush along his cheek bones and his inability to meet Mycroft's eyes. But, most importantly, Mycroft can see the imprint of lace beneath the Dolce & Gabbana.

Mycroft's smile is smooth and predatory. “Do you remember what I told you to do last time?” Sherlock quickly moves behind the desk and drops immediately to his knees by Mycroft's side. Mycroft strokes his cheek before painfully snagging the curls above Sherlock's ear.

“Shirt off,” Mycroft commands as he undoes his own flies one-handed. Sherlock quickly unbuttons his shirt and strips it from his shoulders. Left behind is a cream lace and sea green silk brassiere. The lace is so light it nearly blends with Sherlock's skin and the teal cups are fitted tight to his flat chest. Mycroft releases Sherlock's hair and caresses down his neck and along one strap. “I had it made for you, before you left. I wanted it to match your skin, your eyes.” His hand continues down to stroke Sherlock's nipple through the silk.

Sherlock moans, his jaw going slack and eyes sliding shut. Mycroft pulls back at his brother's reaction. He pulls his cock from his pants and strokes the length. “You'll apologize before I touch you again.”

Sherlock's eyes open with an ice cold glare. “Isn't coming here apology enough?”

“No.” Mycroft is still stroking his hardening prick and Sherlock doesn't look away.

“Fine. I'm sorry.” Sherlock leans forward, sliding his hands up Mycroft's thighs.

“Not good enough. I want to hear why you're here.” Mycroft stands, forcing Sherlock to rock back on his heels. He continues to stroke his cock inches from Sherlock's face.

“I'm here because I want you to fuck me. Surely it hasn't been so long that you've forgotten how this works.”

Mycroft's free hand grabs a fistful of Sherlock's hair again and pulls his head back. “No. Tell me.”

“He doesn't-- can't satisfy me like you do. He doesn't do the things you do.” Mycroft guides his cock to Sherlock's face, rubbing the head against Sherlock's cheek, along his nose, and across his bottom lip. Sherlock opens his mouth, ready for Mycroft to push in and fuck his face. Instead, Mycroft stops moving and leaves the head of his cock resting against Sherlock's open mouth.

“More. Tell me more.”

“John doesn't fuck me hard enough. He doesn't push me. He doesn't make me do things I don't want to do. He won't--” Mycroft cuts him off with a forceful push of his cock between Sherlock's lips. He keeps his hand clutched at the back of Sherlock's head while he sets a fast and hard pace. Almost immediately, Sherlock is struggling to breath through his nose and spit runs down his chin. He gags once or twice but Mycroft keeps pushing.

“Do you ask him too? Have you asked him to use you any way he wants or to be rougher with you?” Mycroft slides his cock from Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock leans forward, trying to suck it back in but Mycroft pulls him backward by the hair.

“No.” Sherlock's voice is petulant and he keeps his eyes trained on Mycroft's cock, eagerly licking his lips.

Mycroft loosens his hold but doesn't untangle his fingers from the back of Sherlock's head. “Why not?”

Sherlock remains silent for several moments as Mycroft's cock bobs between them. Sherlock tries to move forward to take Mycroft's cock again but Mycroft is quick to pull him back again. He lands a stinging slap across Sherlock's cheek. Mycroft doesn't repeat his question. He simply raises an eyebrow at Sherlock.

“I don't ask because I don't want him to do those things.” Sherlock raises his eyes to meet Mycroft's and opens his mouth invitingly.

Mycroft's smile is triumphant. “Good.” He pushes his cock past Sherlock's lips and resumes his hard and strong pace.

It only takes a few minutes before Mycroft's thrusts are losing rhythm and his gasps are turning to moans. Sherlock digs his short fingernails into the arm holding his head and Mycroft steps back, confused.

Sherlock wipes the drool from his face, lips abused and deep red. “No, fucking me. I came here so you would fuck me.” He rises on unsteady legs and drops his trousers to the floor. Sherlock's erection is trapped in matching lace-and-silk panties. The sea green is darkened by a spot of precum near the low-sitting waistband.

Mycroft reaches out to press the pattern of the lace into the skin at Sherlock's hip. “I don't have anything here to use.”

Sherlock steps away from the pool of his trousers and bends over the desk. “Doesn't matter. I prepped myself before I came here.”

Mycroft runs a hand from Sherlock's silk covered arse, up his spine, to the hooks of his bra. He traces the lace band wrapped around Sherlock's back, using his other hand to press the leaking head of his cock into the crack of Sherlock's arse through the panties. He rubs up and down a few strokes before a rough plea comes from Sherlock's downcast head. “Mycroft. Please.”

Mycroft catches the waistband of Sherlock's panties with both hands and pulls them down to rest just below Sherlock's arse. He leaves Sherlock's erection trapped against the silk front of the lingerie. He spreads Sherlock's cheeks to see the base of a small butt plug, just enough to keep him ready.

Mycroft's breath catches. “You want to feel it. Feel all of it.”

“Please, make it hurt. Hurt me. Please.” Sherlock pushes back in an attempt to gain contact. Mycroft pushes him forward but he keeps Sherlock's arse cheeks spread, taking hold of the base of the plug. Sherlock grinds his hips down, seeking friction in the damp silk panties holding his cock tight against his body.

When the plug slips free, it leaves Sherlock's hole slick and slightly opened. Mycroft wastes no time and pushes his cock in to the hilt. Sherlock cries out and raises up from the desk. Mycroft pushes his shoulders flat against the desk and holds him there.

It's fast and hard and ends quickly. They are both louder than necessary, with shouts and moans they would normally keep to themselves. Mycroft sneaks a hand between Sherlock's cock and the desk, rubbing the silk against his brother's cock. “Cum in your pretty new panties for me.”

Sherlock shouts his name and the panties are drenched. The increased tightness around Mycroft's cock as Sherlock cums pushes him over the edge. He buries his cock in Sherlock's arse and fills him.

They stay joined together, catching their breath. Mycroft lays his head along Sherlock's sweaty back, pressing his face to the lace of the bra.

Mycroft presses a kiss to Sherlock's back. “Why do you stay with him?” He is too wrung out to keep the hurt from his voice.

Sherlock doesn't answer for a long moment. Mycroft continues to press his soft lips against the edge of the lace. When Sherlock does answer, his voice is almost too soft to hear. “I care about him.”

Mycroft pulls back immediately. “We all now how advantageous that is.” Before Sherlock can rise from the desk, Mycroft is spreading his cheeks again and working the plug back into his wet and abused hole. Sherlock shivers but doesn't move or protest.

When the plug is seated firmly in Sherlock's arse, Mycroft steps away. “Take that home to John. Go home and let him see you full of me and see if he still cares about you then. See if he can care about you when he knows what you are. Knows what you do.”

Mycroft settles back in his chair while Sherlock dresses and leaves his office. They don't look at each other. Silence holds the room until Sherlock slams the door.

********************

It takes a few more months of infrequent shagging for John to put it together. Mycroft is actually impressed at how quickly he figured it out.

“Marks, Mycroft! He came home with fucking slash marks on his back and legs! He said I should ask you.” John is yelling, which is much better than John in a quiet rage. Mycroft just raises an eyebrow and sips his tea.

John's jaw tightens and he rubs his thumb along the edge of his fist. “Are you shagging him?”

Mycroft appreciates the directness of the question and it deserves a direct answer. “Yes.”

“Christ. He's your brother.” John's anger takes on an edge of revulsion. No words about infidelity, only about the morality of his arrangement with Sherlock.

It clicks into place for Mycroft quickly and he's shocked by how little John really knows Sherlock. “You think I started this?”

“More interested in when you started it actually.”

A short bark of laughter escapes Mycroft at that statement. “When I got my first position in London, Sherlock was still in school. He used to call my office during the day and describe in great detail what he wanted me to do to him while he wanked himself. I could hear his breathing change, hear his hand slide against his cock, hear how he moaned when he penetrated himself. He showed up at my flat the first chance he got. I took what I wanted, but I didn't start this.”

John has no response but his hands stay clenched at his sides. Mycroft presses on. “You don't know him at all, John. He manipulates people. He knew exactly what he was doing when he let me leave those marks on him. He asked for them. He knew what he was doing when he let you see them. He can't care about someone--”

Mycroft doesn't see the punch coming, which is a surprise all around. Maybe John didn't even mean to throw it. But John's right fist catches the left corner of Mycroft's mouth, splitting his bottom lip near the edge. Mycroft is knocked backwards and lands in a heap on the floor. He laughs and wipes the blood from his face. For a moment, he thinks John may hit him again.

He rubs his jaw. It's already beginning to grow sore. “What do you think is going to happen here, John? Sherlock is suddenly going to become a better person because of your feelings?” Mycroft picks himself up from the floor, reasonable sure John isn't going to knock him back down.

“Just...just stay away from him. This is over. Do you understand? That's not a request.” John's teeth are clenched and he definitely looks like he wants to hit Mycroft again.

“I've never pursued him. But he'll come back to me.” Mycroft keeps his face neutral even though the truth makes him feel ridiculously smug.

“Not again. Nope. Not going to happen.” John is shaking his head and stepping back, preparing to leave as if he can make the future change just by getting the last word.

Mycroft doesn't respond. He lets John leave because he knows it won't make a difference.

Sherlock will be back. Mycroft's sure of it.

********************

However, Mycroft didn't think Sherlock would be back quite so soon. He didn't expect shows of sympathy from his brother. That was not something Sherlock had ever been cognizant of, and it had never been something that existed between them. But Sherlock was in Mycroft's study before he had finished either the application of ice to his mouth and cheek or the two fingers of scotch he poured immediately after John's departure.

Sherlock perches on the edge of the desk across from Mycroft's seated form, his long legs bumping with Mycroft's knees. He pulls the ice pack away from the corner of Mycroft's lips and runs his finger tips across the split and onto Mycroft's cheek. “That's going to leave a nasty bruise.” Sherlock's voice echos on a note of resigned sadness in the quiet study.

“You should ask him to hit you. He'd be good at it.” Mycroft desperately hopes he isn't giving Sherlock permission to leave him again.

“No,” Sherlock gives a firm shake of his head. “He wouldn't. He won't hit someone he loves.” Sherlock looks away as the words tumble from his lips.

Mycroft's heart aches. “Only others out of love for you?” Eyes still locked on the floor, Sherlock doesn't respond. Mycroft lets the silence drag on for several minutes just to feel Sherlock's fingers pressed to the forming bruise on his cheek. When Sherlock finally looks back at him, Mycroft adds, “So that's what this is then? You're in love with him?”

Sherlock lets his fingers fall from Mycroft's face. “Yes.”

Mycroft pushes away from the desk and stands. “Are you staying?” The “with me” goes unstated. Mycroft's not entirely sure if he means staying for an hour, the night, or indefinitely. He'll take whatever he can get.

“No.”

Mycroft turns his back as Sherlock rises from the desk. “You'll be back. You can't stay away. You've proven that before.”

Sherlock comes to stand behind his brother. He drops his head to rest at the base of Mycroft's neck, perfectly between his shoulder blades. Sherlock wraps his arms around Mycroft's waist and hugs him from behind. “Unfortunately, I don't have the time to make the same mistake twice.”

Mycroft stiffens. “Moriarty?” He feels the nod of Sherlock's head against his back. Sherlock squeezes again and begins to pull away. Mycroft catches the hands around his waist with his own. His voice is thick. “I'm sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pulls his hands away. “I know.” He presses his lips to the sliver of skin above Mycroft's collar. “Don't let John hit you again.”

Mycroft doesn't turn around until long after Sherlock has slipped from the house.

********************

Mycroft has one of his assistants gather all the papers. All the news stories, all the tabloid headlines, all the obituaries. He refuses to look at them until he's in the proper place.

Mycroft takes them all, folded neatly in his valise, to the Diogenes club. He takes his customary chair near one of the many fireplaces and finishes his first drink before he dares open the case. With the norms of the club pressing in on him, the pattern of behavior holding him together here, he can read. Read every word without sobbing, tearing his hair from his head, or doing further harm to himself. It is his penance, but even that only goes so far. In the end, they all played the hand they'd been dealt as best they could but he's never felt truly alone before.

At least at Diogenes, he blends in with all the other tired, solitary old men. No one will find him out here. No one will see the things he's done, what he thought they meant, and how much he misses his brother. He'll keep the papers close until the ink has smudged off the newsprint.


End file.
